Hanging Mary

by Susan Higginbotham

  I put down the diary and wept.

  But he was not always delirious or even unhappy. Word had spread around the prison about his condition, so those prisoners who could afford it had the sutler send him delicacies, which he made a gallant effort at devouring. He adored his mother, and the only time I saw him lose his composure when in his senses was when he told me how his father beat her (something Mrs. Baxley had not mentioned) while he stood by, too young and small to come to her aid. I had his bed moved by the window so when he was able to, he could sit propped up against the pillows and watch the passersby. Though his diary led me to believe that in health he was outgoing, nearly as talkative as his mother, in his sickness he was content to be left to his own thoughts while I sat by his side and made what repairs I could to his uniform.

  “You know what I’d like to do someday, Mrs. Surratt?” he asked once after several hours of silence.

  I followed his eye to a pair of giggling young ladies passing by the prison. “What, dear?”

  “Go to the Canterbury here.” He blushed. “One of the men told me the girls there are really pretty.”

  “So I hear.” I patted his hand. “When you are better, and when my own sons are back, perhaps you can make a party of it.”

  I was not at all certain how confident these whens sounded. But they seemed to give William hope, for when I next looked up, he was sleeping, a half smile on his face.

  • • •

  Superintendent Wood—a short, rumpled man who looked more like one of the prisoners than our keeper—returned on the day after the procession, and after much cajoling, he released two prostitutes who were imprisoned here, and who often stopped by our room to chatter. I did not believe they were bad girls at heart, but I confess I was glad to see them gone, for while I know Our Savior consorted with thieves and prostitutes, he did not have a daughter to think of.

  But most importantly, Superintendent Wood ordered that Mrs. Baxley be admitted to her son’s room again. My duties did not cease, however, for it turned out that the boy had grown attached to me, and Mrs. Baxley too needed comfort (and, she confessed to me, wanted a companion lest she again say something that would get her sent away). So a few times a day, I read to them from a little pocket Bible (found in William’s uniform, and admittedly not very well thumbed) while Mrs. Baxley sat by her son’s bedside, stroking his dark hair as mother and son listened to those words of heavenly comfort.

  • • •

  On Friday, Superintendent Wood came to our room. “I’m going to Maryland to help them look for Booth,” he announced. “They’ve raised the reward to a hundred thousand dollars, and I’ll be as happy as any other man to claim it. Fifty thousand for Booth, and twenty-five thousand each for Herold and your son John.” He nodded toward Olivia. “And I’m taking you, young lady, with me, and returning you to your father’s house. Maybe it might make the good people of Prince George’s County a bit more forthcoming.”

  “Oh, thank the Lord! But can we stop by my aunt’s house and get my clothes?”

  “Of course.” Superintendent Wood winked. “What’s catching an assassin to making sure you have gowns? Besides, we’ll be going to that neighborhood to pick up Kirby.”

  “Mr. Kirby?” I asked. “You mean my friend Mr. Kirby?”

  “Yes, I’ve detailed him as part of my search party,” Superintendent Wood said offhandedly. “He knows your son, and twenty-five thousand is nothing to sneeze at.”

  “Sir, is the reward for them dead or alive?”

  “It doesn’t say. But all in all, I imagine the authorities would prefer to have them taken alive.”

  I hugged Olivia, too distracted by thoughts of my son being led back here in chains, or carried in lifeless, to bid her a proper good-bye.

  • • •

  Mrs. Baxley cried when she heard of Superintendent Wood’s departure, certain it would mean another separation from her boy. But not even Mr. Wilson would be so callous as to part them, for it was apparent that William Baxley had just hours to live.

  Mr. Wilson sent for a priest, who heard the young man’s confession and gave him the last rites before leaving the boy and his mother alone, with me nearby as requested. William was very weak but generally in his senses, and he listened patiently as Mrs. Baxley apologized to him at great length for everything she had ever done wrong. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be repenting, Ma,” he said with a faint smile. “Ma, is it my birthday yet?”

  “No, my love. A few days off.”

  “Oh.” William Baxley’s face contracted. “Kiss me, Ma, like you used to when I was a little fellow, and hold my hand while I sleep.”

  She obeyed, and just around three in the morning on April 22, her son slipped quietly out of this hard world.

  • • •

  I left Mrs. Baxley alone with her dead son, returning after daylight to help her lay him out in the pine coffin Lieutenant Colonel Colby ordered. We were about to dress him in his tattered gray jacket when Mrs. Baxley shook her head and put the garment aside, folding it tenderly for herself. Other than this, his Bible, his diary, and a ring, which I took off his hand for his mother, the boy had no effects. I cut a lock of his hair for Mrs. Baxley, and with her permission, one for me as well, for it hurt to think how few people would mourn this handsome young boy who, but for this cruel war, would have married a sweet young woman and fathered children.

  Superintendent Wood, expecting the worst, had left orders that the young man be taken to Congressional Cemetery and that Mrs. Baxley and anyone of her choice be allowed to attend his funeral. She chose me, and together we rode in the carriage Lieutenant Colonel Colby had hired to the cemetery. It had far too many fresh graves.

  I watched as they slid William’s coffin into the public vault, where it would rest until Mrs. Baxley could find the means to move it to a place of her own choosing. The coffin held a boy of seventeen who had seen men die horribly, who had experienced hunger and pain and privation, but who had never kissed a girl. The unfairness of it filled me with so much rage that I began to shake.

  And then I understood exactly why Mr. Booth did what he did.

  34

  NORA

  APRIL 22 TO 24, 1865

  Having spent most of my life at boarding schools, I settled into routines naturally, and I soon settled into this one. We had our morning and nightly head counts, our three meals a day, and a couple of exercise periods, and in between all of these regularly scheduled events, we ladies wandered about in each other’s quarters and looked out for fresh fish. There was quite a full net of us over those first couple of days, including so many people connected with Ford’s Theatre or the acting profession that we might have gotten up private theatricals here, complete with scenery, if anyone had been so inclined.

  As fish were concerned, it soon appeared that I was a mere minnow, for on the first Saturday of our captivity, while Mrs. Surratt was at the Baxley boy’s funeral, Mr. Wilson came to our room. “Collect your things, Miss Fitzpatrick. You’re to be released, and your father is waiting to take you home.”

  “What about the others, sir?”

  “The orders concern only you, miss.”

  I embraced Anna. “They’ll free you and your mother soon, I just know it. They’re investigating and realizing that we’re innocent of all this.”

  “I hope so.”

  Brushing my eyes as I left the dejected Anna behind, I followed Mr. Wilson to the office where I had been searched. There my father was pacing around. “Nora!” He took me into his arms. “My darling child, I have been frantic with worry.”

  “And she’s safe and sound, just as I told you,” Mr. Wilson said. “Can we give you a ride in the ambulance? It’s a dreary day, as you know.”

  “Thank you, but I would prefer to take my daughter home myself,” my father said stiffly.

  “As you wish.” He handed me a piece of paper. “Sign this—a loyalty oath—and you are free to go.”

  I never signed a paper so quickly i
n my life.

  We passed out into the street, I taking one last look at the walls that had held me as my father lifted his umbrella over our heads. “I hope my letter did not alarm you, Father.”

  “Letter? I got no letter.”

  “They let me send you one the morning I got here.”

  “I have seen nothing of the sort, child. I went to Mrs. Surratt’s on Tuesday, having heard that a man had been arrested there, and found the place full of detectives, who told me that all of you had been taken here. They detained me for a short time, as they were doing to anyone who happened to stop by there for any reason, and then let me go. Since then, I have been going from pillar to post, begging for your release, but with no success until today.”

  I looked appreciatively around at the blooming trees, never so beautiful in my eyes as today, even though the rain was falling fast. “Where am I to stay?”

  “At the Misses Donovan.” Father looked away. “I will be straightforward with you, child. I had already spoken to them about taking you in on the very day you were arrested. The more talk I heard about Booth’s being received in that house, and about Mr. Surratt’s activities, the more I came to realize that however fond you were of Mrs. Surratt, I could not have you remaining there. Peter himself telegrammed me to urge that you be taken from there, and that decided me.”

  I was too relieved to be free to complain of Peter’s meddling.

  As we turned the corner, I saw the placard that had mushroomed around the city: the latest reward poster for Mr. Booth, Mr. Herold, and Mr. Surratt. I’d seen the photograph of Mr. Surratt many times before: it was the one Mr. Weichmann had handed the detectives.

  • • •

  To my joy, Mr. Rochester was comfortably ensconced in the Misses Donovan’s best chair when my father brought me to their house. He gave me a bored look and rolled over, clearly content with his new surroundings after all of the inconvenience he had suffered in his old ones.

  But if Mr. Rochester took my disappearance and return with perfect equanimity, how the old ladies fussed over me! One would think I had escaped from the Bastille. Nothing but my favorite foods was ever served me, and I am convinced that if I had suddenly announced a taste for porpoise, the ladies would have made every effort to accommodate me.

  Pleasant as all this cosseting was, it was also a bit stifling, and I was relieved when Father allowed me to work at my booth at the St. Aloysius fair, as had been arranged—it seemed decades ago—before the assassination. So, clad in my best Sunday dress that had been liberated from the assassin’s den, as the Misses Donovan liked to refer to Mrs. Surratt’s boardinghouse, I took my place there at the appointed time on Monday evening.

  Normally at church fairs and charity bazaars, I stood forlornly behind a table stacked with plain and fancy goods while men flocked to the tables of prettier young ladies, until, to my utter humiliation, one of the Venuses, her own table empty of goods, would be sent to my table and immediately bolster its appeal. But not this day. As soon as I took my place, a crowd began to flock to my table. I knew why, of course: word traveled fast in this large church, and everyone knew of my arrest and my acquaintance with Mr. Booth. For two straight hours, I pressed my wares on customers while answering the same questions over and over again: Yes, I knew Mr. Booth. No, he did not look to me like an assassin. No, I had not known what he was planning, and if I had, I would most certainly have let someone know. No, I had no idea of where he might be hiding. Yes, I had been in prison. No, I did not know when Mrs. Surratt and Anna would be leaving, but I hoped it was soon, as they had known nothing about Mr. Booth’s evil deed. Everyone was so very curious, in fact, they were forgetting to buy my goods.

  The first onslaught of questioners had receded when a dark-haired man of about thirty, good-looking in a sort of impudent way, approached, a little girl at each hand. They were Mr. Alexander Whelan and his daughters, who often sat near us at church. Mr. Whelan had a wife, but I had met her only once or twice, as she was an invalid and seldom came to services. The little energy she did have, she expended on her two little girls, six-year-old Mary Catherine and three-year-old Annie, for they always appeared at church in beautiful matching dresses, Mary Catherine’s golden curls bouncing, and Annie’s duller hair resplendent with a fancy bow. Mr. Whelan raised his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Fitzpatrick. I’m glad to see you don’t look much worse for wear for your stay in the clink.”

  “It could have been much worse, sir. Really, the most dreadful part about it was the food, and having nothing to read.”

  “Why were you in jail?” Mary Catherine frowned. “Were you bad?”

  “No, no, Mary. Miss Fitzpatrick’s a nice young lady.”

  “Then why did they put her in jail?”

  “We’ll talk about it at home, princess,” Mr. Whelan promised. “And speaking of princesses, look sharp, Miss Fitzpatrick. The queen is coming.”

  Sure enough, strolling through the hall was St. Aloysius’s most prominent parishioner, Mrs. Stephen Douglas, widow of the senator who had lost the 1860 election to President Lincoln. He had been a good thirty years her senior when they married, and he was so enamored of her that he had not only made no fuss about her being a Catholic, but had allowed his own sons by his first marriage to be raised in the church. Every Sunday since I had begun coming here, I had seen her and her stepchildren sitting in Pew No. 1. On the rare Sundays when she was not present, we could still see her, for so lovely was she that she had been the artist’s model for the altarpiece showing St. Aloysius with his mother.

  Yet as far apart as Mrs. Douglas and I were socially, we did have one thing in common: Georgetown Visitation. She had been a pupil there ten years before me, and after her marriage she had returned on occasion to visit her old teachers and to act as a benefactress. It was there we had met, and as she had the gift of remembering faces that a politician’s wife must have, she had remembered me and spoken to me pleasantly on the few times we happened to encounter each other at church.

  I watched as Mrs. Douglas, elegantly clad in the lavender she had favored since coming out of full mourning, made her way from booth to booth, at each one asking that something be set aside for delivery to her later. At last she reached my own. Instead of pointing at items with her expensively gloved hand, she said, “Miss Fitzpatrick, I was so sorry to hear of your unfortunate experience. I hope it has not affected your health.”

  News did indeed travel far. “No, ma’am. I am quite well.”

  “Are Mrs. Surratt and her daughter still imprisoned?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I hope that they will soon be released.”

  “I certainly hope so. If I can be of any help, please let me know.”

  “I will, ma’am.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Douglas said, pointing to a painted cup. “I do believe I’ll take this. And this. And this.”

  I modestly credited myself at least partially for the success of the fair that particular day.

  Having bespoken most of what was on my table, Mrs. Douglas bid me good day, and I commenced wrapping her purchases.

  “Mrs. Douglas, should you be in need of a painter or a grainer, I’m your man,” Mr. Whelan said. “Special rates for parishioners.”

  “I will remember that, Mr.…”

  “Whelan, madam. Mr. Alexander Whelan.”

  Mrs. Douglas nodded and moved on to the next table. “Pa! Why did you ask her that?” Mary Catherine asked him.

  “It never hurts to try, girls.” He eyed the remainder of my merchandise. “Now, I bet your ma wants a pincushion.”

  “She has one, Pa.”

  “Well, she’s going to have another one.” Mr. Whelan squinted at the array of pincushions.

  “Maybe two,” I suggested.

  “Pa, what’s the man doing?”

  “Now, girlie, your ma always tells you it’s rude to point.”

  “Well, they’re pointing at us.”

  Mr. Whelan frowned. “Actually,” he said, “they’re pointing a
t you, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I’ve seen him at the provost marshal’s.”

  Mr. Whelan planted himself by my side as a soldier headed straight in the direction he had been pointed, ignoring even Mrs. Mahoney’s famous pound cake, which Father Wiget had pronounced not even Christ himself could have resisted. “Miss Nora Fitzpatrick?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s more we need to talk about, miss. I’d like to see you at the provost marshal’s office for a few moments.”

  “Don’t go, Miss Fitzpatrick. It’s a trick.”

  The soldier turned his gaze to Mr. Whelan. “Is this man a relative of yours, Miss Fitzpatrick?”

  “A friend,” Mr. Whelan said. “What do you want with this young lady?”

  “To ask her a few questions, as I said, about some very serious matters. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll not interfere.”

  With visions of Mr. Whelan being dragged off in fetters while his poor little girls looked on, I said, “Mr. Whelan, would you please go fetch Father Wiget for me? He is standing over there.”

  Mr. Whelan muttered something but obeyed. “Is something wrong here?” Father Wiget asked.

  “He wants Miss Fitzpatrick to abandon her post and to go the provost marshal’s office. I think it’s a damned trap.”

  “Nonsense,” the soldier said. “We just need to clarify some things.”

  “Then why can’t you ask about them here?”

  “Because the men asking the questions are there. Father, make the fellow see reason.”

  Father Wiget sighed. “I think you must go, Miss Fitzpatrick. The sooner they catch Booth, the better off we’ll all be, and if there is anything you can do to help, you must.”

  “I’ll bring the young lady back here when we’re finished,” the soldier said. He sniffed. “Maybe even buy some cake.”

  “Then go along with him, Miss Fitzpatrick.”